Life, Love, Spiritual Living and the odd Catastrophe…..

An Aussie Icon

This may sound strange, but the first time I saw, let alone used a typical outside ‘Dunny’ was when I came to Australia in 1972. It is only strange in that coming from the UK, I am led to believe there used to be many outside toilets, but I had been fortunate not to come across any. Strange but true.

The summer of ’72 was hot and the family, who were already in Australia, did their best to take us around the South East parts of Queensland and see as much as we could over these summer holidays. It was on one such excursion when it was pitilessly hot, for someone from the UK winter anything over 25 degrees Celsius was going to be hot, and my bladder was screaming for release that I relented and entered my first ‘Long Drop’.

There are always a huge number of people who will regale you with tales of the perils of using the outside dunny and the long drop. The dunny was the home of the green tree frogs who would come out, especially once the heat of the day was over and would often jump up onto your nether regions as you were ensconced on the dunny. Then there were the Redback spiders – whose bite was painful and on the nether regions could be extremely embarrassing as well. “Always lift the seat before sitting down”, I was told.

Then there were the admonitions to check the walls and under the roof for daddy long legs or tarantulas that might decided to wander in on you. That is of course forgetting about the odd snake which may have slithered into the yard between the house and the dunny. Altogether it did not seem to be somewhere I would really want to go if I could avoid it.

But first, the “Long Drop”. No one would say anything about it, simply smiled that “I can’t wait to see this” smile you knew was up to no good.

image from drawinz.com –

It was hot, we had been drinking copiously and bladders would not be ignored any longer. I approached this “Long Drop” with something akin to dread. Inside was a wooden box with a toilet seat on it. Taking all my spare courage I peeked over the edge since I could swear I could see daylight. All I could see was fresh air, yes, fresh air, and a huge drop going down and down and down.

You could say it was the most delicate seating I had experienced in my life to that point. I was terrified that if I sat down I would fall through this hole and vanish down the mountainside. I didn’t want to think about the specifics of how it worked, I simply wanted to find some relief and leave….. quickly. Needless to say my Australianised family thought it was the most humorous thing they had ever seen. I didn’t repeat the experience. You can wait an awful long time before succumbing to needless torture.

Yet the most horrifying experience came when I visited my future husband’s family property. They still had the old outside dunny. The house was a beautiful Queenslander and I simply didn’t think about the toilet, I assumed it would be just like the one at home. We didn’t arrive until late in the afternoon so it was after dusk before I felt the ‘urge’. Of course as soon as I mentioned it to my wonderful boyfriend he decided it was time to remind me about all those old stories I had heard when I first arrived in Australia. By this time I had been here just over two years.

So I waited, and waited and waited until I couldn’t wait any longer. The outhouse was situated under an old spreading gum, shade for during the day, but of course in my mind easy access for any creepy crawlies and slithering reptiles who would delight in scaring the living daylights out of me. So I took the easy way out and applied copious amounts of guilt on my boyfriend in front of his grandmother to walk me up the ‘garden path’. Big mistake. HUGE Mistake. GARGANTUAN mistake.

Torch in hand off we walked to the dunny. “You go first” he said. Humpf! There was no interior light so once the door closed it was pitch black. I had barely time to try to sit down before there was an almighty crash onto the tin roof! An unladylike strangled scream split the air. (I was trying to make a good impression on his grandmother). I almost launched myself off the offending dunny but nature could not be denied.

A minute passed and then here were two more crashes onto the roof. This time the screech was not strangled and I very nearly had an accident. At the speed of light I was off the dunny, dressed and out that door. There I found, not a concerned boyfriend, not an army of snakes or bats or anything else in the critter variety but the huddled and tortured form of my boyfriend. He was holding himself upright, just, and trying to smother screeches of laughter from erupting from his throat, I could see by the light of the torch that he was red in the face and had tears running down his face.

Fortune was with me. I grabbed the nearest loose object, which happened to be a cement hard lump of dirt and threw it with all my might at him. The resounding thud and choking sounds were more than satisfying as I stalked back to the house. I had already connected with his grandmother so I was delighted to tell her what her grandson had done. He spent the night on the cold verandah on a day bed (in the middle of winter) and I snuggled under a beautiful doona with an electric blanket.

The moral of the story, it’s all very well to take the mickey out of someone but be prepared to face the consequences if they don’t take kindly to your sense of humour.

The final epitaph to the story is that I never entered another outhouse for many years, and that is one story which still gives me nightmares.

8 Responses

My grandmother’s house had an outside dunny back in England, at least it was sewered and no spiders. A great story Susan that highlights the unique differences in toilet humour, etiquette and inhabitants of said latrines. When we came out in 1961 we stayed a little while on a hostel then moved to La Perouse. As the taxi drove along Elaroo Avenue my old man took in the little houses in all the backyards and said, “crikey, it looks like everyone keeps pigeons here.” Oh weren’t we surprised. Mum nearly shit herself when she saw the tins. We didn’t have the luxury of the ‘long drop.’ You lucky thing you. Although the obligatory, frogs, spiders etc were there in spades. Even worse was out bush when the tin filled up, then it was drawing the short straw to see who emptied it. I remember the old man had a huge rubbish fire burning in the paddock and thought if he threw the contents onto the fire it would save digging a hole. Wrong! The shit didn’t hit the fan although it might as well have. It flew straight back and warmed up too boot. Had to laugh about you throwing the clump at the boyfriend, obviously didn’t get off on the right foot there. great post.
Cheers
Laurie.

I have been known to wield that poo brush with style and flair over time Susan. I’ve written my way out of trouble often. 🙂 Yes, I always thought the exploding poo was a good one and believe me he deserved it too. If you haven’t had the dubious pleasure of perusing my army posts, scroll down to Holy exploding crap Batman.

Yes, I can see you and Ray have a lot in common. I, on the other hand tend to leave exploding crappers to others 🙂 My son, on the other hand has a mischievous streak a mile wide which he employed to good use throughout his time in Scouts through to Rangers. (He actually taught his squad survival techniques from SAS manuals). I might have to print some of your stories out and send him installments, if I give hum carte blanch he will probably find himself in hot water. Thank heavens I don’t do his washing now! How did yours go? Sorry, got the better of me. Susan.

Nothing wrong with the occasional exploding crapper Susan, it adds a certain something to life, a walk on the wild side. From SAS manuals eh, boy didn’t you have your work cut out. I can imagine your washing machine screaming in protest at the indignity. My son was in army cadets and did similar things with his victims, sorry troops. print them out and share the love. My washing? Well on that particular day it was a quick rinse of the face from my water bottle and a stick to scrape the crap off my uniform. Not my finest moment. 🙂
Laurie.

The temptation to expound… As a former woolclasser travelling around shearing sheds, there are some tales to tell… From the sublime to the ridiculous! We even dug one at our own shearing shed, way back last century… Even that was funny…

The early pit dunnies had a layer of kerosene over the contents, ostensibly to keep the flies out. However, shearers smoke, and when there wasn’t enough kero at one shed, the boss threw a gallon of petrol down it instead. The fumes, heavier than air, sat in the bottom of the pit….

The next cigarette butt down it literally blew the shit out of it! The little building was demolished – the pit acted like a blast chamber and lifted the building and the shearer off the ground and scattered them around the yard.

Ahhh, the good old days… Sometimes the best thing about them is that they are gone!

It’s always good to spread the manure around Ray. I always remember the old man saying that we have a man on the moon and we’re still shitting in tins. I can visualize that shearer, with his Jackie Howe ablaze arcing through the air. 🙂